


Shooting Range and Dinner

by RollingPeaches



Series: Get Shot and Fuckin' Die [5]
Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: F/M, Some kissing, Syverson and Reece meet, he's technically working, just ya know, though it's not really a break, unrealistic break from deployment, working and wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:24:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollingPeaches/pseuds/RollingPeaches
Summary: Syverson is stateside for a little bit and uses some of his time to get to know Lane a little bit better.





	1. Shooting Range and Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unrealistic is my thing apparently, because I don't think a Captain in the military would have a random two weeks to come back stateside, I could be completely wrong.
> 
> Brats are mentioned that's brats as in bratwurst not brats as in someone being a brat or a bratz doll. this is my strangest hangup when reading, not being able to differentiate right away.

She hadn’t planned this out, hadn’t thought it through. She had simply been excited, and now, she was regretting that. Since the first time he’d said, “I’m gonna be stateside for a little bit,” which was approximately a week ago, she was starting to panic, overthink. Why did she have to make this so complicated? She’d just gotten off the phone with him, he had said a friend picked him up from the airport, which thank whatever higher powers were out there, so she didn’t have to worry about the pressure to make their reunion _romantic_. Were they even dating, god, what _were_ they?

She shoved away from her desk, and stood, stomping towards the exit.

“’ey!” Reece called after her, “Where you goin’?”

“Range,” she called stiltedly, “I need to shoot something,” she muttered to herself.

Reece had caught up with her by the time she made it to the range. They set up with ear protection and targets then let it rip. She went through a few weapons of choice, then yanked off her ear protection and brought her target forward, she had some decent groupings, not her best, not her worst.

“What’s got you all worked up?”

She hesitated, then spilled, “Syverson’s stateside for a bit.”

Reece blinked down at her, then grinned slowly.

“Shut up,” she muttered, gathering her things, getting ready to head out.

“So, what, you goes are dating?” he asked.

She shrugged, handing the weapons over to the desk, save for her own, which she reloaded and snapped back into her holster.

“Ooohhh,” Reece nodded, “You don’t know, do you?”

The guy was an idiot, it was like he didn’t know that she carried a gun on her hip for a living. She leveled him with a look, and rounded him, heading for the exit.

“C’mon, Jazzy!” he called, scrambling to catch up. He was interrupted from his continued badgering by some of the SWAT guys coming through.

“Lane,” one of them greeted on a nod, “Williams,” they nodded at Reece.

“How’s it goin’, Birdy?” she asked up at the man, he cracked a smile. “When you comin’ back to SWAT, girl?”

She shrugged, “I like where I’m at.”

“Why?” he sounded truly clueless.

“I like to detect things,” she smirked, striding through the door.

She started back up to the bullpen, entered and froze, she recognized that broad back. _Shit_. She started forward, Reece was oblivious and continued in his line of questioning.

“Girl,” Reece followed her, “How you went and gave up a spot on SWAT, I’ll never know.”

She shrugged, then stopped at her desk, “Hey,” she greeted, Syverson turned, blue eyes landing on her, then sweeping down to take her in in full. Jeans tucked into boots, gun on her hip, extra clip and handcuffs on her belt, shirt tucked into her jeans.

“Shit, this is Syverson?” Reece exclaimed.

Jasmine sent him a glare, “This is Detective Reece Williams,” she informed, “Reece, this is Captain Hank Syverson.”

“Shit, man,” Reece leaned in, clasped his hand, and brought Syverson into a half hug, back slapping and all. “Nice to meet you.”

“Good to see you’re feeling better,” Syverson scanned over him

“Shit, man,” Reece grinned, “My wife wouldn’t stop cookin’. She did up fried chicken, greens, corn bread, chili, I gained thirteen pounds.”

“Then maybe you should go hit the gym,” Jasmine cut in, giving a slight, dismissive flick of her hand.

“Shit, Jazz, relax, I’m not stealin’ your man.”

“Next time, I’m not carrying your ass half a city block, you can crawl.”

He hissed, a broad grin spreading across his face, “She’s only mean because she cares, my guy,” he clapped Syverson’s shoulder and strolled away.

She shook her head and flopped down at her desk, quickly snatching up her bottle of sand and depositing it in a drawer, hopefully, he hadn’t been standing there long enough to identify it. Syverson grinned down at her, then rounded her desk and sat in the extra chair to the side, lounging back, legs splaying wide, “So that’s Reece.”

“Yes,” she grumbled, doing a quick scan of her email.

“And you were apparently SWAT,” he noted.

She paused, glancing over at him to gauge his reaction. “For six months.”

He nodded slightly, eyeing her, “It’s six, your shift's over.”

It was passed over.

“What’re we doing?” she asked, then eyes widened slightly, because that’s not what she meant to ask.

“Going to get food,” he informed easily, which, thank baby Jesus.

“Where?”

He shrugged, “It’s a surprise.”

She stood, grabbing her bag, “I’m not too fond of surprises.”

He rolled his head back lazily and grinned up at her, “I’m aware.”

He stood and followed her out, she gave a wave to Samantha—Sammy—at the front desk, who arched a perfectly manicured brow at Syverson, but waved back. She was driving, she realized belatedly, since his friend had dropped him off, “Where to?” she asked, as she beeped the locks, she threw her bag in the back, then climbed up into the Jeep. He climbed up into the passenger seat and grinned, “You have a Jeep,” he stated unnecessarily.

“Yes,” she eyed him, mostly because he looked good, and natural in her vehicle, and she couldn’t let herself get used to that.

“Head down Summit,” he pointed to the street, she blinked, snapping out of her trance, and started the vehicle. She followed his directions until they made their way to the fairgrounds, she blinked, “Brats, Burgers, Beer, and More?” she read the sign. It was an arts and crafts fair with a shit-ton of food trucks, this was something she could get behind.

He grinned.

“You think they have fried green tomatoes?” she asked, following the flagger’s directions and parking. She angled towards the glove box and pulled out a different holster, switching out her open carry for a concealed carry, which she tucked into her lower stomach. She slammed the door, beeped the locks and started for the gate. Syverson paid admission, which she hesitated over, but he didn’t even _ask_ , so she just went for it. Once on the fairgrounds, she scanned the food trucks, standing up on her toes to try and see further down the line. He tapped her on the shoulder, pointed down a ways, “Fried green tomatoes.”

“Shit, yes!” she grinned, grabbed his arm, and tugged him through the crowd, as they waited in line, she offered out a hesitant, “I can pay.”

Blue eyes slanted her way, and he stated, “You _can_ , but you’re not.”

Then he stepped up and ordered. She got her fried green tomatoes, a steak burger, and a frozen lemonade, while he got a bratwurst, a giant pretzel, and a beer. They found a spot at the food tent and chowed down.

“Why’d you leave SWAT?” he asked.

She shrugged, munching on her steak burger, swallowed, and said, “I don’t know. I liked it well enough. Five months in, we raided this house, suspected human trafficking, it pissed me off. Went to the sex crimes unit.” She bit into a fried green tomato and immediately started waving her hand in front of her face, “Hot, hot, hot,” she panted out.

She chewed rapidly and swallowed on a grimace, then immediately reached for her frozen lemonade with watering eyes, “Ow,” she mumbled out. He was smirking at her, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Shut up,” she muttered around her straw, before taking a tentative bite of a tomato.

“How long were you at sex crimes?”

She thought a moment, “Two years, ish.”

“Why’d you switch to homicide?”

“Because sex crimes pissed me off,” she shrugged, it made no sense; she joined sex crimes because she was pissed off about human trafficking, then she left sex crimes because she was pissed off.

“Seventy-five percent of the time, someone was raped, other cops, DA, they’d heavily suggest _not_ pressing charges. Because then there’s a trial, and the lawyer’s going to tear your life apart,” she shrugged, “It’s bullshit. If someone dies, they’re dead, foul play is determined or not. There’s no stupidity behind it on our end.” She paused, “For the most part, occasionally some higher up tries to convince us not to look into something or y’know, the mob, other than that,” she shrugged, stuffing her steak burger into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, then asked, “Why’d you join the military?”

“I’m from Texas,” he deadpanned.

She snorted inelegantly, “That’s it? No other reason?”

He shrugged a large shoulder, while taking a bite of his brat.

She narrowed her eyes, “You’re telling me, you’ve made it all the way to Captain, for no other reason than,” she pitched her voice low in a bad imitation of him and drawled out, “ _I’m Texan_?”

“Dad was an asshole. Needed to get out of the house, out of the State,” he shrugged.

“Let me guess, he was in the Air Force.”

He grinned, slow and broad, “May have been.”

That was a ‘yes’, he just didn’t want to come off as predictable.

“I never got stabbed at a family reunion though.”

She tipped her frozen lemonade at him in surrender. “So, you enlisted out of high school?”

He nodded, “Did four years, came back, got my Bachelor’s, went to Officer Candidate School, came out at a Second Lieutenant, worked my way up.”

She had more questions, a bunch more. But he cut in before she could continue grilling him about the military, “You gonna keep giving me shit, or we gonna walk around?”

“I can do both,” she countered, standing. Burger gone, and only one fried green tomato, she dumped the trays, and kept her lemonade to slurp on.

“Ooh,” she pointed at a booth, “Knives.” She pondered buying one, but she _really_ didn’t need one, she had plenty of knives, even if she didn’t have one that was _pretty_ and _ornate_ and lethal. “That one’s really cool,” she tapped the display case before stepping away, “I’m gonna go to the next booth,” she told Sy, who nodded, feigning interest in another knife, once she was gone, he pounced on the knife she’d pointed out. “That one,” he told the man behind the booth, who nodded, and pulled the blade out, Syverson handed over the money, then carefully tucked it away in his pocket. He caught up to Lane in the other booth, which was wood carvings of some sort. She turned, holding up a wooden mask with a dramatic mustache.

“No,” he stated dryly, though couldn’t quite hide the amusement. She held the mask out with a grin, “The resemblance is uncanny,” she told him studying his face then the mask. “Ha. Ha,” he muttered, taking the mask from her and putting it back on its stand. As they moved on to the next booth she asked, “So, what’re you really doing back in the States?”

He drained the rest of his beer and dropped it into a bin, “Classified,” he stated, bracing for potential irritation on her part, in his experience, that’s how it went with relationships. The mention of his work, what he can and can’t tell, being pulled away at unknown times due to special forces, the long absences for deployment all caused resentment and what once may have started as attraction to his job or admiration, turned to hatred and bitterness.

She simply smiled and moved on to the next booth, he paused, gaze following after her as she ghosted her fingers over a few handcrafted mugs and bowls, then he followed after, _okay then, that wasn’t too bad_.

They didn’t make it through all of the exhibits before the event closed down, but that was okay, because it was nearing on 8pm and she was exhausted. She pondered the field used as a parking lot, scanning one way, then the next, then turned and stared at the entrance, “Right,” she muttered, then pointed, “That way, right?”

He grinned, “Yeah.”

“Beautiful,” she murmured, walking that. She’d bought a few things, a couple pairs of earrings for presents, a giant mug—because you can’t have enough mugs—and a cool, spooky ceramic pumpkin for Halloween.

She placed her stuff in the back, pulled herself into the driver’s seat, and stared at the dash. Okay, yeah, wake up. She shoved the key into the ignition and promptly turned the AC on.

“Where to?” she asked, pulling through the makeshift parking space and following the remaining line of traffic out.

“Hotel on Broad and High,” he informed.

“Got it,” she nodded, turning left.

“This was fun,” she told the road, turning right. He shifted, looked over at her. “Yeah.”

“I like arts fests like that,” she informed, checking her mirrors and changing lanes, “I used to go every year to one with my mom.”

“So mom isn’t the one who stabbed you at the family reunion,” he noted.

She grinned over at him, then glanced back to the road, “No.” She turned off into the hotel parking lot and drove through to the drop off area. She spotted someone that looked suspiciously like Shaw.

“Don’t know how busy I’ll be,” he informed, “But we can try and meet up towards the end of next week?” he asked.

“Yeah, definitely—well, I never know when a murder’s gonna pop up but, yeah.”

He got out, closed the door, she rolled the window down and leaned over to say, “So, if there are any assassinations or suspicious high-profile deaths, I’ll know it was you.”

“I’m not assassinating anyone,” he countered with mild exasperation, leaning into the window, arms crossing on the door.

“Uh-huh, just what an assassin would say.”

He grinned, hand extending slightly, palm up. She placed hers in his, small and dainty in comparison. A soft clasp, they were holding hands, _how adorable_ , he tugged her towards him a little.

“Don’t be too reckless, Lane,” he muttered.

“I take—”

“Calculated risks, yeah, I know.”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t believe me.”

His right brow arched, “I don’t.”

They were close, so close she thought they might kiss, so of course, she promptly yawned in his face, too tired to be a bit embarrassed. All smolder, on his part, turned to amusement, “You good to drive home?” he asked. She pulled her hand from his grasp and turned the AC to full blast, “Wide awake,” she reported.

He watched her a moment then nodded, “Right.”

“Bye, Jasmine,” he rumbled while stepping back from the car.

“See ya, Hank,” she grinned, then took off.


	2. Not Your Cup of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasmine introduces Syverson to an interesting friend, manages to sneak buying him a meal, and gets her warrant.

“Please tell me you have my toxicology report,” she demanded into her phone.

Silence, then a throat cleared, and that was definitely not Irene from the lab, she pulled her phone away from her ear to stare at the screen, oh, oh shit, this was a random number.

“I take it, that means you aren’t free for lunch,” Syverson’s voice broke through.

“Uhm,” she glanced to the time on her work computer, “I could do lunch.”

“You sure?”

“I can’t do anything until I get my tox report,” she informed, “Where at?”

“Your choice.”

She thought a moment, definitely not the diner down the road, it was a cop diner, every cop and their mother would home in on her with a _not_ cop and ask who he was, and is this your man, and when’s the wedding, are you having babies? Nope, nope, definitely not.

“There’s a café on Fourth, called Not Your Cup of Tea.”

He snorted, “Right.”

They hung up and she logged out of her computer, before heading out. Luckily, Reece was getting his twelfth cup of coffee and wasn’t there to give her shit. Syverson beat her there, she realized as she walked in to see the broad expanse of his back, and damnit, but the man looked good in jeans, totally against the laws of nature. She crossed to him and joined him in line. He dipped his chin and looked down at her, “This is…interesting.”

She grinned, he meant the menu, which was a lot of cussing and dramatic explanations, “It’s great, trust me.”

They stepped up and the kid behind the counter held up a hand, “Dude!” he exclaimed, “Dude, you military?” he asked, he didn’t wait for a response, “Lemme hook you up,” he began pressing buttons on the register. He glanced up, “Lane!”

“Hey, Jonah,” she greeted, “This is Syverson,” she stated.

Jonah grinned, “Fuckin’ righteous, you want your usual?”

“Yeah, thanks, and one of those sandwich things,” she added.

Jonah bopped his head, then turned, and started banging around.

“Jonah’s a culinary genius,” she informed.

“Lane tell you she arrested me?” Jonah called, while smacking the side of a machine aggressively.

Syverson’s brows flicked upwards, glancing over a shoulder to look at the other patrons, though they seemed unfazed by both the man’s statement and actions. Lane nudged him and pointed to a plaque on the wall, reading ‘This establishment owned by an Ex-Con, problem? Get the fuck out.’ She shrugged.

Jonah placed two beverages on the bar, “I was a punk,” he stated without embarrassment, then turned and started making her sandwich. He turned back, huge sandwich in hand, put that on the bar, grabbed a bag of a chips and opened the display where a bunch of baked goods were, and pulled out a giant double chocolate chunk cookie, “And a cookie,” he stated proudly. “Her arresting me? Best day of my life.”

“You weren’t saying it then,” she countered while grabbing her drink and taking a sip, head tipping back and groaning in appreciation.

“Hurry up,” someone called from behind them.

“Hey!” Jonah barked out, snatching up a wooden spoon, “Don’t make me jump this bar,” he waved the spoon threateningly.

Jasmine pulled out her wallet and pulled out a twenty.

“No charge,” Jonah stated, waving his hand.

She avoided his waving, deterring hands, and stuffed the bill into his tip jar. “Hey!” Jonah whined, “I said no charge!”

“What’re you gonna do?” she taunted, “Shoot me?”

Jonah blinked, gaze going to Syverson’s, nose wrinkling he admitted, “I may have shot her.”

Syverson’s brows flicked upwards, blue gaze flicking over Jonah, then going to Jasmine.

“It was a graze, I tackled him and arrested his skinny ass, no problem,” she elbowed Syverson in the ribs, “Grab the sandwich,” she grabbed up the cookie and chips, and started for a table. She pondered the table, she didn’t sit with her back to the door, she was willing to bet he didn’t either. She shrugged, sliding into the booth, facing the door.

“Scooch over,” he ordered, she did as instructed, and he slid into the booth with her. She reached out, began unwrapping the sandwich, it was cut in half, usually, she’d eat half, save the rest for dinner, because she definitely couldn’t eat it on her own. She took a bite and nodded, yep, that’s the stuff right there.

“You’re gonna hate yourself when you get back to Iraq,” she stated, after chewing and swallowing.

He sliced a look her way and took a huge bite out of his half of the sandwich. The man actually closed his eyes, he was in heaven. She grinned, and took a sip of her beverage.

“What’d he make you?” she asked, “Can I taste?”

He nodded, swallowing, “Shit,” he muttered, “This is good.”

“Told you,” she mumbled taking a sip of his drink which was strong and bold and with a hint of hazelnut, and some sweet thrown in for good measure. Yep totally, Syverson. “Mm,” she hummed, nodding, going back to her own.

“He shot you.” He stated.

“It was a graze,” she reiterated.

“Where?” he asked.

She pointed to her left arm with a chip and then stuffed it in her mouth, “’ey,” she mumbled out, chewing. He had grabbed her arm, shoved up her sleeve to reveal that there was in fact a scar on her upper arm, definitely from a bullet.

“A graze,” she stated slowly, as if speaking to a misbehaving dog.

“And then you what? Adopted the guy?”

She shrugged, “He saw the errors of his ways. I visited him a couple times in prison. Went to his parole hearing, they let him out.” 

“And this?” he gestured to the café.

“I may have…helped him with a loan.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“He’s doing quite well. Hipsters like being yelled at and threatened. And the not hipsters like that there’s cussing and no bullshit.” She shrugged again, “It works.”

He stared at her, expression full of bewilderment, “It’s like you live in a fairytale.”

She snorted, “I think I’ve been shot and stabbed a couple times too many to live in a fairytale, at least, the Disney versions for sure.” She took another bite of her sandwich, “But honestly, it can’t count as naivety if I’m right. He was ready to make the change, and he did.” She shrugged.

He continued his staring, then turned back to his sandwich with a shake of his head. She shrugged. He was about to speak when her phone went off. She pulled it from her pocket, checked the ID this time and saw that it was Irene. “Hey, tox report?” she asked.

“It’s a match, I already told Reece, he’s working on your warrant, so you can finish your date with Syverson?” Irene’s voice turned up at the end, “Who’s Syverson?”

Jasmine was going to shoot Reece. “He’s a guy,” she stated.

“Ohh, like, a _man_?” Irene inquired.

“Generally, that’s what that means.”

“That you’re seeing, though.”

Jasmine slanted a look towards Syverson, he was definitely hearing all of this.

“I am currently looking at him,” she agreed.

Syverson grinned dangerously.

“Jasmine,” Irene admonished, “Give me details, darling!”

“Thanks for the tox report, Irene.”

“Jasmine, don’t you hang up—” she cut her off by promptly ending the call, and putting her phone face down on the table.

“You gotta leave?” he asked.

“Nah, Reece is doing the warrant, ‘bout time _he_ did a warrant,” she muttered the last part. They continued eating. She asked about the guys, they were apparently fine, he was particularly vague, meaning the probability of the man outside the hotel being Shaw rocketed up a few notches, interesting. Ten minutes later she got a text, from Reece, warrant was in.

“Now, I have to go,” she mumbled, texting her response. Syverson nodded, but didn’t say anything, he also didn’t move.

“What?” She asked, “Do you want me to climb over the table?” she asked. He wiped at his mouth and hands with a napkin, dropped it on the sandwich wrapper, and turned to her. His right hand came out, cupped the back of her head, and oh, she was not prepared for this, not ready at all, because he was kissing her, her eyes closed, and she went with it, because _why not_? She was pretty sure she had stopped thinking. He pulled back a little, she breathed in, slowly opened her eyes.

“Where you goin’ for your warrant?” he rumbled out.

She blinked, gaze going from his lips to his eyes, was he trying to kiss information out of her? Make it so she couldn’t think so she’d cough up information? She grinned slowly, then patted him on his rather buff chest, “That’s confidential, buddy,” then she grabbed up her trash and beverage and gave his shoulder a shove, and he shifted out of the booth. She disposed of her trash, kept her beverage, leaned over to grab up her phone and pocketed it.

“Thanks for the food, big guy,” she said up to him. He smiled down at her, “You paid.”

“Technically I tipped,” she scrunched her nose.

“Right,” he muttered, he dipped down a bit, kissed her again, brief but hard. She was gonna have kiss swollen lips while arresting a drug cartel, _great_. “Don’t do anything stupid, Lane.”

She didn’t bother correcting him, simply parroted his earlier sentiment, “Right.” She was halfway out the door when she paused, glancing back. He was still standing, arms at his sides, watching her, eyes doing the scary intense thing she’d seen directed at her back in Iraq. She had the sudden realization, that maybe him telling her not to be reckless or stupid, wasn’t actually that, maybe it was something else. She gave a slight nod and headed out the door, pondering that notion. What that something else could mean.

_I love you_.


	3. Drug Cartels and Allergy Attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Lane serves her warrant. Captain Syverson watches on the news.

Syverson and the team: Shaw, Bennett, Brooks, Collins, and the new guy Riffer, were waiting for the plane to gear up. He was passing the time by checking and repacking his gear.

“Sy!” Shaw called, Syverson paused in his packing of the gear and stepped into the room, leaning into the doorframe, arm’s crossed. Shaw pointed to the TV. And he turned his attention to the screen.

The news was on. Something about a big drug bust. He squinted a little, the camera work a little shaky, the police had set up a wide perimeter, the drug guy’s house and property were huge. DEA, FBI, local law enforcement agencies, the works were milling about. And there, in the middle of it all, in mostly black SWAT gear, was one small, feisty Jasmine Lane. Leading out a man who was dressed in an immaculate suit, in cuffs. She opened the car door and ducked the man’s head as he sat down in the vehicle.

“Shit,” Brooks muttered, “That Lane?” he asked, peering back to look at Sy.

Yes, it fucking was. And on the list of stupid things, this was probably in the top one hundred. Making a public arrest on a drug cartel, for fuck’s sake. At that moment, another man, already handcuffed, took off, she turned following him with her gaze, then rolled her head to the left, and said something to another officer of some kind. The man looked up from his notepad, and took off, after the fleeing man, leaving a second against a car. The other handcuffed man decided to make a run for it as well, but Jasmine grabbed hold of his shirt as he wobble-sprinted his way passed her, and swung him around to the ground, the man got a mouth full of dirt for his troubles.

The other officer returned to frame, his suspect in tow, and Sy could practically hear the sass Jasmine was throwing at the other officer. He shook his head slightly and the footage cut to the news room. He went back to his gear. He may have used this trip to do some recon on Lane. Figure out the shit she liked and didn’t like. Like Despite her sending him a shit-ton of spicy shit, she wasn’t a big fan herself, she was a fan of sweet, like so sweet he choked. She liked knives and she liked fuzzy soft shit. He got an old book on forensics, how to solve crime without all the fancy gizmos, he figured she'd appreciate it, since that was pretty much how she had to solve her case when she was in Iraq.

So, he’d bought her a bunch of random shit, and was sending it back to her as soon as they landed in Iraq, because, she fucking deserved it, and though she seemed to find the humor in him sending a box of sand, there wasn’t much else to send.

He spent the duration of the flight, putting the box together, padding it with packing paper, and arranging all of the shit in the box, before taping the crap out of it and filling out the labels and customs shit. He should’ve just done this while still in the States, but that wouldn’t count, then would it? He decided to address it to her at the precinct, since she seemed to be there more than her house. The guys didn’t dare ask what the hell he was doing. Though he was certain Shaw considered it. They landed, he handed the box off to the nearest Specialist with the order to, “Mail it.”

*****

Jasmine was mid-bite of a donut, don’t judge her, when Sammy brought the box up. She blinked dumbly at her with chipmunk cheeks.

“You got a package,” Samantha informed.

Jasmine chewed, contemplating the package, boxes of that size were usually suspect, she had visions of opening it and everyone being vaporized. She set her donut down, still chewing, and finally swallowed. Sammy arched a brow, arms folded over her middle, stilettoed foot tapping impatiently, as she eyed Jasmine, “well?” she prompted, “open it.”

She wiped her hands on a napkin, “Was it checked?” she asked.

“Yes. No bombs, explosives, drugs,” she waved her hand in silent etcetera.

She reached into her boot and pulled out her knife, she sliced through the tape, and slowly opened it.

“Hey,” Reece appeared at her shoulder. “What’d’ya get?” he asked eyeing the package, with a similar trepidation as her own. She shrugged, pulling the flaps to the side and pulling a hunk of packing paper to the side. She blinked dumbly down at it. On top of a bunch of other shit, like a really soft looking blanket, was the knife from the arts and crafts fair she’d gone to with Syverson. _What the hell_? She picked it up carefully and studied it, her eyes started stinging, nose tingling, she abruptly set it back in the box, and promptly closed the box and re-sealed it with regular scotch tape.

“What the hell?!” Samantha demanded. “What else is in it?”

Jasmine sniffled, reaching for a tissue she dabbed at her nose.

“Are you—” Reece bent down, “Are you _crying_?”

“No,” she muffled out from behind the tissue.

Reece stood up straight, dark eyes landing on Samantha in panic, he waved a hand at Jasmine. Samantha’s eyes bugged out and she shook her head. Reece nodded incessantly, and Samantha caved.

“Is it…from your…hairy guy?”

Jasmine sputtered out a laugh, despite a few tears trickling down her cheeks, “Some men have beards, Samantha.”

Samantha wrinkled her nose, “It’s gross. He looks like a guy from the duck dynasty.”

“Yo, Williams, move your ass!” Grouch’s voice barked out, shoving through the aisle way, “Jesus, what is this, a waiting room, move—” he promptly shut up, clear blue eyes under bushy eyebrows locking on Jasmine. “Uh,” he muttered, all bluster gone, “Are you…?” he paused, then blurted, “Having an allergy attack?”

She sniffled then stood, that was a great idea, “Yes, I am, Grouch. Tell Hughes I went home early.” She scooped up her box, grabbed her bag, and hurried out of the bullpen, to the muffled argument of Samantha and Reece.

“You follow her!”

“No, you go talk to her!”

“No, _you_ —"

She heard the quick thud of boots, which meant Reece had lost the argument, and was coming after her. She stepped into the elevator, and almost, _almost_ made it, but his arm shot out just in time, holding the doors open. He stepped in, leaned over and pressed the ground floor for them. She sent him a warning look.

“So, uh…things are serious,” he noted.

Honestly, she hadn’t a fucking clue. She kept her silence.

“Long distance relationships are hard,” he pointed out the obvious. He had some experience with it, Alexis, his wife, had been away from him while at college, granted she was a state away, not an ocean. She still didn’t say anything, they dinged to a floor, and a few more people stepped in. Reece wisely shut up until they made it to the ground floor and stepped out of the elevator.

“You know, if you want to talk about it,” he gestured to himself, she arched a brow at him.

“Right,” he nodded, “Good chat,” he promptly about-faced, and marched back to the elevator.

That evening, instead of making dinner, she made a big bowl of popcorn opened some of the candy Syverson had sent, and snuggled under the giant, super soft blanket while watching the Mummy. She fell asleep around the scene Evy was proclaiming, “What is a place like me doing in a girl like this?”

*****

On the way into work the next morning, Samantha caught up with her while she came in.

“Hey,” Samantha greeted.

“Hey, Sammy.”

“You know, if you need to talk, I’m here, right?” Samantha asked.

Jasmine arched a brow, coming from the woman who at the slightest inconvenience in a relationship, dumped the guy and moved on, that wasn’t the most promising advice.

“Thanks, Samantha.”

She made it upstairs and was stopped by Hughes. “You…recovered from your, allergy attack?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes, “Yes,” she answered lowly.

“You take a Claritin or something?”

“Yeah, Hughes,” she nodded, “I took a Claritin.”

“Good, good,” he nodded, “Just uh, ya know, if you need a couple days,” he shrugged.

“Thanks, Cap.” She nodded, heading to her desk.

*****

“You’re an asshole,” she greeted the long, unknown number. She was on night number two of eating junk food under the super soft blanket.

Silence. Oh, oh shit, was this not Syverson?

“Sy?” she asked the silence.

“How, exactly, am I an asshole?” she breathed out in relief at his voice, which sounded mildly mused but also curious.

“You came back here, went shopping, bought the freaking knife from that booth behind my back, took it all back to Iraq, and _sent_ it to me.”

“If it makes you feel better, buying a bunch of crap to send back across the ocean wasn’t the primary reason of my visit,” he offered, for the first time telling a woman that she wasn’t his priority to make her feel better.

“You sent it to my work.”

“You’re always there.”

“I _cried_ ,” she growled out.

He paused, “You cried,” he repeated dumbly.

“Yes.”

“It was a box of junk and a knife.”

“I know that!” she exclaimed, exasperation evident.

He blinked slowly, _what. The actual. Fuck?_ “So…why did you cry?”

“Why doesn’t matter. What matters, is that I cried in front of the whole bullpen and they won’t shut the fuck up about it.”

Meaning, Reece wouldn’t shut up about it, most likely. “I can kill them all for you, if you want?” he intoned carefully.

She laughed, her indignation slipping away. “No, that’s alright, just means more work for me, then.”

Minor crisis averted; she promptly broke out into quick, excited rants about everything he’d packed away in the box. The awesome, ornate knife of course. But also, snacks, and a cool book about the history of forensics, a super soft blanket, and, most importantly, one of his t-shirts. Once they hung up though, he was still pondering the why of it? Why would she cry? All the shit they went through together here, and she didn’t cry, maybe she had after Russel had jerked off on her bed, but even then, it was more rage than tears. So, what the hell? He resolved to call Reece tomorrow, figure out if the man had insight, and maybe to tell him to lay off giving Jasmine shit as well.

*****

“Reece, we gotta go,” she called to her partner who was lounging back in his chair, legs propped up on his desk, talking on the phone like a school girl.

“Reece,” she grumbled out, crossing the bullpen to him, she waved her hand in the air and caught his attention, she waved her hand in a circle, _hurry up_.

“Yeah, man, she’s just not used to the love, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Her eyes narrowed, was he talking about her?

“Reece,” she ordered, grabbing up the phone with the intent of hanging up, “Let’s. Go.”

“Don’t hang up, that’s your boo-thang,” Reece held up his hand to try and stay her movements.

She arched a brow and brought the phone to her ear. “Sy?”

Silence, then, low and casual, “Hey, Jasmine,” why was his voice all soft and velvety like that?

“Why are you talking to Reece?” she asked, then asked the same of Reece, “why are you talking to Sy?”

“I was telling him to lay off the jokes,” Syverson informed.

“He was just calling to tell me to stop being a dick.”

She stared at Reece, but responded to Syverson, “I said it was fine.”

“I know,” he responded.

“I-you—listen—we’ve gotta go. We’ve got a warrant to execute.”

“Be safe, Lane,” was his response.

“I take—”

“—Calculated risks, I know,” he filled in. She huffed out a small laugh, “Have a good evening, Sy,” she murmured, then hung up, glare locked on Reece.

“Girl, your ability to go soft and squishy to murder-y is terrifying, you’re worse than Alexis.”

“Warrant. Now.” She ordered.

“Shit,” he muttered standing up, “Fine.”


End file.
